Page 1 of The Tracker

PROLOGUE

EVANGELINE

Champagne always tasted like carbonated guilt if you held it in your mouth long enough. Evangeline Shaw knew that from experience, but she swirled her flute for the cameras anyway, smiling beneath the soft glare of a chandelier that looked like it had been imported straight from Versailles.

Outside the glass walls, San Antonio’s night air hummed with the drone of cicadas and distant honking, the scent of river mud and hot asphalt just creeping into the chilled marble foyer.

The Shaw Petrochemical gala was a black-tie only spectacle held in the building’s spacious and glamorous foyer. It wasn’t a ballroom per se, but it could certainly double for one. No one came for the shrimp cocktail. They came to see the crown princess—the one who glistened under the lights, all sleek satin and inherited polish.

Tonight, Evangeline wore navy silk that clung just enough to hint without scandalizing. Her heels were designer, her earrings borrowed from her mother’s vault, and her smile had been rehearsed so often it practically had its own business license.

She played her part flawlessly—Shaw Petrochemical’s golden girl. The polished face of the company’s so-called PR division, though calling it a division was generous. Her real job wasto look good in quarterly reports and stand quietly beside her father, the CEO, during merger announcements.

With her father out of the country in Nigeria, negotiating a deal worth billions, it was up to her to keep up appearances—smiling for the cameras, managing the press, and representing the brand with practiced polish. No one mistook her for the one running the company; that responsibility belonged to her father’s executives. And that was fine—she knew her role, knew exactly what was expected of her… even if it sometimes felt like she was performing more than contributing.

And tonight, to look very much in love with her fiancé, Peter Rhodes.

Two years ago, Peter had shown up as a so-called ‘consultant,’ brought in to streamline sales—recommended by a shadowy equity partner no one really knew. But somewhere along the way, he'd become something else entirely. He appeared at her side now as if conjured by the thought. Tall, clean-cut, and infuriatingly handsome in that bland, corporate-approved way that put investors at ease, Peter slipped an arm around her waist. The cufflinks at his wrist caught the light—solid gold, stamped with the SP logo, of course.

“Picture perfect,” Peter murmured as a photographer angled for a shot. His tone was low and intimate, warm enough to make her smile feel almost real.

Evangeline tilted her chin toward him, letting the smile linger as the cameras clicked. He rested a guiding hand at her waist, the gesture proprietary but affectionate—exactly what the moment required.

“Just a few more minutes,” he whispered. “Then I’ll whisk you away for a proper celebration. Just us.”

“Such a romantic,” she teased, her laugh soft, sparkling like champagne bubbles. The flashbulbs loved that sound. So did Peter. Or so she thought.

“You deserve it,” he said against her temple. “Tonight’s your night. I want the whole world to see what I already know.”

The words curled around her like a promise, but something in her stomach fluttered—not nerves, exactly, just… pressure. The kind that came from being on display, from having everything ride on appearances, timing and precision.

Still, she leaned into him as more cameras snapped, his touch steady, his smile practiced and perfect. They looked the part. Said the right things. Moved like two halves of a whole.

And that had to be love, didn’t it?

Ten minutes later, while Stanley Squire, her father’s right-hand man, toasted the 'limitless horizon of Shaw Petrochemical,' Evangeline slipped behind a velvet curtain under the guise of lipstick repair. What she really needed was air—and to wrestle down the panic attack clawing at her ribs.

The corridor just off the public foyer was quiet and dim, lined with gilded sconces and the muted murmur of distant conversation. She’d just turned toward the powder room when Peter’s voice drifted through the half-open service door.

“...a matter of weeks, maybe days. Once the board signs off, Shaw steps aside and I take the helm. She’ll endorse whatever I hand her—marriage license, proxy, prenup addendum. All ribbon-tied.”

Evangeline froze.

A second man answered, his baritone wrapped in smoke. “Not bad for a temp spy gig.”

Peter chuckled. “Temporary? I told you—why siphon data when I can own the damn wellhead? After the wedding, the Shaws will be ceremonial at best... if they're lucky.”

Her stomach dropped. Spy. Coup. Marriage as acquisition.

She edged closer, careful not to disturb the door. Peter stood near the far wall, bourbon in hand, relaxed as a cat in sunlight.The other man’s back was to her—just another tuxedo in a sea of sharks.

Instinct screamed. Run.

Evangeline pivoted, heart ricocheting. Her heels clacked on marble, too loud, so she kicked them off mid-stride, hopping on one foot and then the other as she scooped them up, and bolted barefoot toward the foyer.

She reached the back staircase before a hand caught her wrist.

“Whoa there, Evvy.”

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